Draco sat beneath the ancient oak tree just outside the castle, his gaze following the movements of students across the Hogwarts grounds. Laughter drifted across the breeze, faint and soft, almost like a dream. Pairs walking hand in hand, groups of friends tangled together in jokes and memories, the occasional couple sneaking kisses behind rose bushes—it was all so normal. So disgustingly warm.
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, not from the cold, but from habit. It had become a second skin, this constant effort to shield himself, to keep the world at a distance. He could see how they—the others—had started to adapt. How the trauma had turned into stories. How scars had faded into inside jokes.
Draco felt like his wounds had never scabbed.
He walked through the halls of the castle like a ghost, silent and unseen unless someone needed a target for a pointed look or a whispered judgment. Some days he wished they'd just say it aloud: Death Eater. Traitor. Coward.
But worse than the whispers were the ones who didn't look at him at all.
Even Pansy had found a way to fit in, to soften her edges. Blaise still hung around him, sure, but Draco could see the shift in his friend's eyes when he thought Draco wasn't looking—a flicker of pity, maybe. Or distance.
Everyone had someone.
Harry Potter had Weasley and Granger. Even Longbottom walked through the castle now like he belonged, often with his arm around that girl from Hufflepuff, Hannah something.
Draco had no one.
No one to hold. No one to talk to about the way sleep never came easily anymore. No one to kiss on the cheek when the world felt a little too loud. No one to call his.
He had tried to fake it. The girl at the Three Broomsticks had been warm, pretty, and painfully eager. He had taken what she offered and hated himself for it. The ache of regret still echoed in his chest every time he passed a mirror and caught sight of the bruise she left. It had faded now, but the emptiness hadn't.
When he passed Harry in the hall, he could feel the weight of the boy's eyes on him. Always watching. Always quiet. And Draco, for reasons he couldn't begin to explain, had stopped trying to smirk back.
He wasn't even sure who he was pretending for anymore.
In class, he barely spoke. He listened, answered when called, kept his head down. But sometimes, when he lifted his gaze, it met green eyes already on him, and something tightened in his chest.
It wasn't want. Not yet. It wasn't need.
It was longing.
For something real. Something honest. Something that wasn't masked in sneers or pretend indifference.
That night, he sat by the window, watching the sky bleed into indigo. The castle had begun to glow from within, warm lights in every window. Laughter drifted up from the common rooms below.
And Draco Malfoy pressed his forehead to the glass, eyes closed, and whispered to the silence, "Why can't I move on like the rest of them?"
He didn't expect an answer. And he didn't get one.
Draco Malfoy watched them all from the shadows of the hallway, his hands tucked into his pockets, a mask of calm indifference spread across his face. They laughed — those classmates of his, former enemies, accidental allies — as though the war had never happened. As though they hadn't all lost pieces of themselves in the rubble of Hogwarts.
He had returned to this castle with the others, older, tired, hoping — though he would never admit it — for some kind of absolution. But the halls whispered differently to him. The walls remembered his footsteps in ways they didn't for the others. Even now, he felt them judging, echoing his every movement.
Everyone seemed to have adjusted. They had people to talk to, arms to fall into, lips to meet in the dark. He had none of that.
And it wasn't that he missed the intimacy — not entirely. He missed belonging. The sense of home, of purpose, of being seen without the weight of old expectations and ancient sins. The girl he had been with, just for one night, had meant nothing. Just flesh and desperation. A cry into the dark that someone might hear. But it only made the hollowness worse. It made him realize how far gone he truly was.
Draco stood alone, watching a group of Hufflepuffs throw snowballs outside. He could hear them shrieking in delight, their cheeks pink, their joy untouched by the burdens he carried.
He turned away.
Meanwhile, Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, tossing Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans into Ron's open mouth while Hermione read a thick Transfiguration textbook, pausing now and then to sigh at them dramatically.
"I swear, you two are children," she muttered.
Harry grinned. "We're helping you with stress relief, Hermione. Don't pretend you're not entertained."
Ron burped. "Yeah, admit it. You love us."
Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled, warmth blooming in the room like a fireplace after a storm.
Harry should've felt whole. Content, even. But part of him — a part he was too afraid to name — kept wandering elsewhere. His thoughts drifted back to that glimpse of Draco earlier. The way he stood apart from the others, eyes dulled, expression carved from marble.
When they finally left for their rooms, Harry walked ahead of the others, his pace slower.
"Go on," he said to them. "I'll catch up."
He didn't even need to think. He knew exactly where Malfoy would be.
Because he'd been watching.
Because he cared, even if he didn't know why.
Even if it terrified him.
The moonlight cut sharp shadows across the floor when Harry found him.
Draco stood by the same arched window he always did, arms crossed, back tense. He didn't turn when Harry entered. But he knew. Of course, he knew.
"What do you want, Potter?" he asked, voice rough.
"I don't know," Harry answered honestly. "Just… wanted to check on you."
Draco laughed, bitter. "What for? So you can report back how the villain's faring?"
Harry stepped closer. "You're not a villain."
Draco finally turned. His eyes were blazing.
"You don't get it, do you? You never have! You walk through this place like a bloody saviour. Everyone looks at you like you're made of light. But me? They still see the boy who nearly got them killed."
Harry's fists clenched. "I never said that."
"But you thought it," Draco snapped. "You still think it."
"I don't!" Harry shouted back. "I don't—bloody hell, Malfoy, I've been trying to understand you! But you shut everyone out like you're proud of being miserable."
Draco's lips trembled, but he held the anger.
"Because I am miserable!" he hissed. "Do you think I like this? Being alone? Watching everyone move on while I stay stuck in this loop? I can't feel anything that makes sense anymore. And when I try, when I—when I let someone close, it's just—empty. I don't even know what it's like to be wanted anymore, Potter. Not really."
Harry stared at him. The rage bled into something softer.
"I want to understand," he said, voice low. "But you've got to let me in."
Draco laughed again, this time cracked.
"You wouldn't survive the inside of my head."
"Try me."
Their eyes locked. Neither moved. The silence stretched.
"I'm tired," Draco whispered, breaking first. "So bloody tired of pretending I'm fine. Of acting like the smirk and sarcasm are enough to keep everyone at bay."
"They aren't," Harry murmured. "Not with me."
Draco's eyes flickered, and for the first time, Harry thought he saw the boy underneath the name.
Just a boy.
Hurting. Lonely.
Just like him.
And maybe, just maybe, they didn't have to be alone anymore.
The room was unusually quiet as the storm between them settled into a heavy, suffocating calm. Harry leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, trying to steady the tumult that still raged inside him. Draco had sunk onto the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor like it held the answer to the ache in his chest.
Neither of them said a word for a while.
But their eyes…
Their eyes spoke volumes.
It started like it always did—unintentional, too-long glances when the other wasn't supposed to be looking. But now, now it was deliberate. Now there was weight in every look. Draco raised his eyes from the floor slowly, meeting Harry's with a guarded vulnerability, like he hated how easy it was to let his defenses slip around him. Harry didn't look away.
They stared.
For a moment too long.
It wasn't defiance. It wasn't competition. Not anymore. There was something wounded in Harry's gaze, something clawing to understand, and something equally raw in Draco's, fighting to keep everything hidden.
Harry took a cautious step forward, and Draco's eyes flickered, not away—but down to his hands. He was twisting the edge of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip, like holding onto something tangible could anchor him.
"You're not the only one who feels alone sometimes," Harry finally said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "I know I have friends… people around. But I still feel like I'm floating, like I'm stuck in a place where no one really gets it."
Draco blinked, jaw clenching, and Harry could see the resistance building again.
"But you have them," Draco muttered, bitterly. "I don't even know who I am outside of the person I was raised to be. And now that it's all ashes… what do I have left?"
Harry exhaled, walking closer until he stood right in front of him.
"I don't know," Harry whispered. "But you're not the only one trying to figure it out."
Their eyes met again—closer, more intense this time. Draco's breath hitched. Harry's heart pounded.
There was something there.
It pulsed between them like a secret.
Something not yet spoken.
And neither of them dared to be the first to look away.